Tethered
Author: Cheryl W.
Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.
Author's Note: This is a shorter chapter than the others but I hope you still enjoy it.
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Chapter 4
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Not making any additional revelations on the case, the brothers had called it an early night. Well, Sam had called it an early night and by turning out the room lights, had made it a necessity that Dean too crawled into bed before most senior citizens did. To Dean's credit, he didn't complain, though he surely saw through his brother's tactics. Instead, he dutifully allowed Sam to mother hen him into bed, didn't mention that the room had had a habit of shifting on him and his headache rivaled the one he had sported when he had gone all vamp. After all, where was the harm in letting Sam think he was humoring him out of the goodness of his big brotherly heart.
But it did take some effort not to snap at his brother during the multiple wakey wakey do-you-know-your-name-what-case-are-we-working-who's-your-favorite-brother concussion checks throughout the night. It did not help that Sam tacked on a bonus question at four am of where'd-you-park-the-Impala. Mean. Just down right mean because, there for a second, he thought she was outside even started to mumble.."parking lo…" before he caught himself, gave his brother a glare that should have melted Sam's face. Then he pulled the pillow over his head, which officially marked the end of Sam's reign as big brother's keeper.
Dean woke the next morning with pain, an irritability level to rival Archie Bunker's and Sam's words running a continuous loop in his head…
"How many times did we almost die going along with one of your suicidal plans?"
"Well, since you think Bobby's hanging around. Maybe Dad is too. I'll give it to him like I should have from the start."
And yes, Sam had apologized…and so did he. But that didn't mean Sam hadn't meant every word. Just like his asylum possession and the Siren battle royale. Words recanted, yes, but not forgotten, not dismissed. More proven than disproven on more than one occasion. So Sam thought his plans were suicidal and he regretted giving him the amulet…fine, he could deal with that, tuck it away with the memory of Sam pulling the trigger repeatedly of the .45 he had aimed at his head, empty clip or not, and his little brother nearly choking him to death. Well, he tried to tuck it all away. But things were crawling to the surface, things he didn't like thinking about: like Bobby, Cas, Hell, Lisa dying in his arms, the look in Jo's eyes when she was about to torch him alive to satisfy Osiris sense of justice and his daughter's 'please don't let him hurt me' plea.
Knowing what had the power to keep the lock on his personal curse box of memories, Dean announced to the empty room, "I need a drink." And he had just hit paid dirt, had dug the bottle out of his bag, had unscrewed the lid and was raising the bottle to his lips…when Sam exited the bathroom. Abruptly Sam stopped, gave him that disappointed look. And didn't that make Dean want the drink one hundred times worse.
Deciding it was best to go on the defensive, Dean demanded, "What?"
Sam told his shoulders to shrug, wanted to play it casual, like it didn't scare him that Dean was being careless enough to combine alcohol with pain meds and a concussion. Which, by the way, was a sheer fire way to go vegetable, like some of the mental patients he had seen being guided around the psychiatric ward. But he was too tense to shrug, too worried to keep silent. "Really?" he challenged, pointedly dropping his eyes from his brother's face to the bottle of Jack and then back up to Dean's face. "With pain meds and a concussion?" his tone conveying that the "idiot" part of his question was understood and need not be spoken aloud.
"What can I say, I've trained my way up to heavy weight class," Dean bragged, lifting the bottle, could almost taste the liquor, was so ready to just slow down his thought process, pare it down to focus on one thing at a time. And right then, taking a drink, regardless of Sam's pissed faced objection, was step one.
"Dean," Sam bit out his brother's name, couldn't believe Dean was being so juvenile. "Just use some common sense!" he caustically snapped, stepping forward and grabbing the bottle's neck, stopping the liquor's ascent to his brother's all too eager gullet. But when he tried to pull the bottle free of his brother's grip, Dean didn't relent.
Tightening his hold on his prize, Dean sarcastically threw Sam's own words back at him, "Thought you didn't care how I dealt with things."
"Yeah, well apparently I was giving you too much credit," Sam retorted, astonished that Dean thought he was going to passively watch him hurt himself. "I thought I could trust you to hold off drinking 'till the case was over. Aren't you off your game enough being doped up on drugs and seeing double? You're supposed to have my back or aren't we playing by those rules anymore." Then with a vicious yank, he slipped the bottle from Dean's grasp. Immediately, he took a step back, didn't know how feral Dean would react.
But Dean didn't charge, didn't try to snatch the bottle back. No, what he did was far worse. He smiled that closed mouth smile of his, the one he broke out when he was hurt the most but didn't want it to show. And it always always heralded a retaliation that he jerry-rigged with the last of his defenses. He had given Azazel that smile in that small cabin, right before he baited him. 'I bet you're real proud of your kids, too. Oh, right. I forgot, I wasted 'em.'
True to form, Dean's next words were a taunt, designed to get a reaction, practically ensured that Sam would strike out at him.
"Least I'm open with my addictions," Dean stated, his tone even but his eyes glittering with angry hurt. "Don't sneak around and lie to you about them," his condemnation carrying in the hiss of words. Remembering all of those months of Sam lying to him, ditching him to be with Ruby, to feed his thirst for blood, Dean felt his hands tighten into fists.
Sam literally saw red, and that so wasn't a good shade when Dean's insinuation was about blood, his drinking blood, craving blood, nearly killing his brother during a heady blood-high. When it came to whose addiction topped whose, he had Dean beat, hands down, had friggin' admitted that, that he had no room to talk. But did Dean drop it, no! Kept harping on things Sam couldn't change.
"Fine. You wanna end up with brain damage, be my guest!" Sam shouted but he couldn't hand the bottle back to Dean, couldn't give his brother the means to destroy himself. Instead, he hurled the bottle against the bathroom door, enjoyed the sound of the shattering glass, the stain of alcohol on the wood, the rivets of liquid, now useless to his brother, running down the door to the floor.
Then Sam was torpedoing for the exit, needed to get out before he started throwing things at Dean….like his fists. He nearly ripped the door off its hinged as he opened it but before he could make his getaway, his brother's demoralized words stopped him.
"Go. Leave. Do what you always do." And Dean wished he could find a way to stop hurting every single time that Sam walked out the door, to be strong enough, smart enough to just let him go and let it end. To let it all end. To stop wanting to keep a hold on something, on someone that would never stay, never want to just stay. Unable to bear standing there and watching Sam walk out on him, again, Dean turned away.
Sam slammed his hand against the door frame, the sound snapping Dean's head around.
Seeing that Sam wasn't through the door, was not moving, was not committed to going….but not set on staying either, Dean found himself holding his breath.
Sam closed his eyes, didn't want to hurt Dean, never wanted to hurt Dean. It was why he repeatedly chose leaving over staying, chose silence over saying words he couldn't recall, words that Dean would take to heart, that would hurt his brother. But leaving, that wasn't hurting Dean any less, was maybe doing more damage. If only he knew the right thing to do!
"I don't know…" he stammered, his back to Dean, wanting to seek help where it was always offered, even when he least deserved it. Turning around, he saw Dean's face, read the wariness there. His brother's walls were stuck, half way down and half way up, told him that Dean anticipated being hurt but was hoping to be wrong, to find that he wasn't reaching out blindly for someone who wouldn't reach back.
It was Dean's doubt that struck Sam, like Dean thought he wanted to hurt him, that he lay awake at night dreaming of new inventive ways to scar his brother. Instead of the opposite being true, that he lay awake sick as the scene with Dean's amazon daughter replayed over and over, as he overheard Dean tell her to walk away, promised to not go after her, watched Dean waiver, wear that …that look and he knew that Dean was about to consciously choose to die rather than shoot a teenage monster whose graduation exam was killing him.
Stepping back into the room, toward his brother, Sam charged, "Can't you see things from my side for a chance?" 'That I don't want to lose you. To have some addiction take you away from me.'
"Right, 'cause my side isn't good enough," Dean lowly returned, should have known Sam couldn't see the forest for the trees, that his taking a drink, it wasn't just for his benefit, was for Sam's benefit as much as it was for his. Sam didn't need him coming unglued, getting all pessimistic. Sam didn't react well to him saying how he really felt like, 'It's going to end bloody.' 'If we live that long…' Funny thing was, he had thought he was doing pretty good by giving the only pledge he could to Sam's 'don't get killed' plea: "I'll try my best."
But none of those were good enough for Sam. The truth wasn't good enough for him.
Sam fought the urge to turn tail and bail, to quit before there was blood shed. He didn't want to pick a side, didn't want there to even be sides. The only side he cared about was him and Dean being on the same side. Exhaling, he marshaled his priorities and then met Dean's eyes head on. "Look. All I'm saying is…I don't want you to push yourself and…"
"What? Get killed?" Dean challenged, followed it with a shake of his head and a bitter laugh. "You're a hypocrite, you know that?"
"What?" Sam nearly squeaked, face scrunching up in unabashed confusion.
But Dean had his opening and he wasn't going to let it slide by, had been carrying this around with him for the past few weeks. Stepping closer to Sam, almost daring his brother to retreat, Dean drawled, "You lectured me about not letting myself get killed and you….you go and give up on me," the last words crumbling into a croak because talking about Sammy dying, that was never going to get any easier. Part of him enjoyed Sam's startled blink, knew that his brother couldn't play dumb, knew exactly what he was referring to: Sam's fatalistic words back in the psychiatric ward.
"I didn't give up…not on you," Sam quietly refuted, eyes glossing over with a thousand emotions Dean couldn't interpret.
But anger mixed with Dean's remembered fear. "You told me I shouldn't even bother trying to find help for you. And you were fine with dying, told me I shoulda seen it coming. What part of that doesn't sound like you giving up, Sam?"
Sam didn't speak right away, recalled that moment with sharp clarity, telling Dean 'I'm just saying..don't do this to yourself,' seeing the flinch of pain that had crossed Dean's face, watching his brother walk away and leave him behind. Swallowing, he hoarsely admitted what had motivated his words, motivated so many of his actions. "I didn't want you to get hurt." But that was only at its simplest form. 'For you to get lost, egged on by false hope, do something unbearable, like make another deal, risk your life, or, God forbid, die trying to save me. Again.'
"Oh, yeah. Because you dying on me wouldn't be .." Dean had started off strong, indignant but then his emotions tripped him up. "…like…." 'Like everything good in me died. All over again.'
But it was written all over Dean's face for Sam to see: the fear, the grief, the pain. Everything Sam had put him through…that Sam had been through every time Dean teetered on the edge of breaking up their duo act by dying on him. Suddenly, Sam needed Dean to know it was never about him willingly leaving, that he would never leave Dean of his own volition, not for forever. "I didn't give up. Not. On. You. I…I waited for you."
Dean stilled, knew that Sam's distinction of his words was supposed to mean something.
"To come back," Sam finished, had sworn that he wouldn't give it, to his hallucinations or to his failing body, would endure the torture as long as it took, until he saw Dean again, laid eyes on his brother one last time. He had done far harder things in the name of brotherly love – had jumped into the Pit, not for something as noble as saving the world but to save one fragile, priceless human's life: his brother's.
So he had held out, didn't let go, had stayed earth bound until Dean returned, until he could say goodbye to his brother. And even now, Sam wondered, if that had been the end, if Cas hadn't stepped in to be his sacrificial lamb, would he really have been strong enough to let Dean go, to be without his brother, in hell or in heaven. Because when he looked into Marin's brother's eyes in his ward room, he had understood the possessive, fanatical, desperate love that he saw in the dead boy's eyes, knew a similar pool of need dwelled deep within himself. That brother had tried to kill his sister so they could be together. But Sam, he had done worse: he had been willing to open a devil's gate and unleash hell on earth to get his brother back, had been so desperate to protect his brother's life that he had started the end of the world.
'Hypocrite' didn't start to tally his sins.
Dean felt his stomach drop. Sure, he had pulled Cas out of his hat and saved Sam but it had been a close call and, now, to learn that, all along, Sam had been there, holding on, expecting…trusting him to save him. "Yeah, for me to come back ….with a healer," Dean restated, understood Sam's declaration then. That Sam was saying he hadn't quit, not really, had still believed, even if it was more hope than faith, that his big brother would make everything alright. 'Sam, when are you going to open your eyes, see me for who I am. A screw up…and much, much worse. No one you should put your last ounce of faith in.' He wasn't prepared for the soft smile that transformed his brother's face, for the warm glow that shone in the eyes he knew better than his own.
It was almost funny to Sam, how clueless Dean sometimes was. Especially when it came to his own worth, to what he meant to his little brother. "Nope, wasn't expecting a healer. I was just waiting for you, Dean. All I cared about was seeing you," Sam earnestly revealed, didn't care if Dean instantly hid behind his defenses, called him a girl, retorted with some lame joke to fluff off his little brother's declaration.
But Dean didn't do any of that, looked, instead, like he might skitter away if Sam reached for him. So Sam remained rock steady but didn't loosen his brother's gaze from his own, needed Dean to not run from this. But most of all, he needed to get it through his brother's concussioned skull that, what mattered most to him in the world, was him.
At a loss of how to even start to process what Sam had said, Dean changed gears, jumped to a new track, and put his mind on the road ahead. "Let's grab some breakfast," he announced a full minute later. Anxious to get out of the room, into a parcel of space that still had some air in it, to someplace where he had room to dodge and dismiss and dissect his brother's conflicting actions and too candid words.
Not prepared for Dean's out-of-the-blue suggestion right there in the middle of, whatever they were having, Sam almost protested..until Dean stopped his headlong stride at the door to turn expectantly toward him, like Dean was waiting for him.
Suddenly, it was enough for Sam that he and Dean were leaving the room together.
Grabbing his shoes, Sam tugged them on, gave Dean an assessing look. But no impatience marred his brother's features. Instead, Dean leaned casually against the door jam, like he'ld gladly wait there all day for his little brother to get ready and finally join him.
Dean didn't move until Sam was beside him, until their eyes met, until he knew that they were OK. Then he headed out of the room, knew that Sam was behind him, that their parting-of-the-ways had been averted. 'But for how long,' rang through Dean's head because Sam never stayed forever, because sooner or later he would screw things up, make it impossible for Sam to stomach to be around him.
It was the law of averages with him: everyone left him. Sam just had the uncanny habit of coming back to him.
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Their breakfast conversation was stilted, even though it was all case talk and they played dodge ball with their eye contact, made sure their inspections of one another were only made when the other wasn't looking. Even the waitress sensed the unease, gave them a strange look, tried to be a peace maker and joke with them. "Well, I haven't seen you two handsome boys before. Looks like you've had a rough time of it," the mid sixty year old, dirty blond haired woman compassionately remarked, jerked her order pad toward the bruising on Dean's forehead right at his hairline.
Self-conscious of his appearance, Dean raised his hand, wondered if he was bleeding again. But his fingers didn't meet any wetness.
Noting that Dean wasn't making a comeback, Sam turned to the waitress, offered, "He was in a car accident yesterday."
The waitress's concerned eyes pulled away from Sam, settled again on Dean. "Well, in that case, I guess you're lucky to still be here with us."
Sam flinched at the statement, at its unintentional bluntness, corrected in his head, 'No, I'm the one who's lucky. I didn't lose Dean.'
Bolstered by the waitress's open friendliness, Dean dropped his hand to the table and gave the woman a charming smile. "I couldn't checkout and deprive thousands of women their chance of meeting me."
That garnered a lighthearted chuckle from the waitress. "You do have charm. in spade. But your humbleness, that one you have to work on, Romeo. Now, much as I like chatting with you boys, my boss will fire me if he doesn't soon see me moving onto our other customers. So what will you be having? We'll start with the shy one…" she said, turning to Sam and giving him a motherly smile and a knowing wink.
Sam beamed at the woman's inclination to tease Dean, that she was giving him the opportunity to playfully join forces with her against his brother. Shooting Dean a smug look, he turned a brilliant smile on the waitress. "I'll have the fruit platter with a side of oatmeal. Coffee to drink."
Penning the order down, the waitress turned to Dean, prompted, "Ok, darling. You're up."
Sitting back in the bench seat, Dean gave his order with a smile before handing her both of their menus. She gave them a warm nod and then headed to a pair of customers patiently waiting two tables away.
Eyes scanning the patrons of the restaurant, meeting their ready smiles, their light laughter catching his interest, Dean stated, "This town is weird, right?"
Sam didn't follow his brother's gaze, focused instead on Dean's profile. "Weird …. " he dropped his voice as he continued so no one else heard him, "..like it had a guy bursting into flames and too many car accidents at the town limits? Then, yeah," he agreed with a snort. That was obvious. But Dean was shaking his head before meeting his gaze.
"No, I mean….this…" he swept his hand back and forward, indicating their surrounding companions. "A chief police who doesn't arrest us, a town full of people who are actually nice to each other." He jerked his head to the gathered band of men sitting at the countertop, all of them laughing, mock arguing over who got to pick up the tab that day.
"And to us…" Sam slowly put together, saw Dean's eyebrows raise in question so he explained. "The deputy saved your life, the medic blackmailed you into going to the hospital, the waitress…heck, even the desk clerk at the motel asked if you were alright when I got ice."
"So creepy?" Dean half stated and half posed.
Giving Dean a patient look, Sam countered firmly. "Nice. Normal," he stressed at his brother skeptical look. "Dean, contrary to your paranoia, not everyone is out to get us."
"Says the guy who was not on the receiving end of a vengeful tree's attention," Dean mumbled back, smiling as the waitress delivered their coffee and then was on her way again.
Sam couldn't hold back a chuckle at his brother's way with words. "Vengeful tree? So now the tree had it out for you, personally?" he prodded, knew that he had Dean when his brother smirked.
"Fine," Dean relented. "Cross vengeful tree off our list but what does that leave us with exactly?"
Sam's humor dimmed. "People dying who shouldn't be?"
"In a restaurant across town, at the town limits, in fires, in car crashes, alone, with other people, with witnesses," Dean rattled off the facts they knew. "Two guys..three if you count my moving violation, and then the family in the car. Men, a woman, children. Young, middle age, kids, a man in his very prime…" and he gave a boasting smile, hoped Sam could figure out which he was in the list.
Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's 'humbleness.' "We need to know if Brendal Larson had connections to those people. Had reasons to want them dead."
"He wouldn't have been born when the first guy died, Sam," Dean pointed out.
"Ok, maybe his family had connections with that guy. Something has to tie in with Brendal."
Dean played with his silverware on the table, gave Sam a hooded look. "Thought you were pitching the theory that Brendal was a victim in all of this, that the chief has an innocent man in jail."
"We don't know what Brendal is, how any of this fits together so let's….let's keep our options open," Sam carefully suggested, knew that Dean had been shaken by the elder Larson brother's words in the jail. But he didn't know in what way and Dean still wasn't saying. So he was going to use kid gloves with his brother when it came to Brendal and just see how things played out.
Dean opened his mouth to reply to Sam but the sound of plates breaking snagged his attention. It was followed by a thump on the restaurant's portioned wall right beside a doorway that lead supposedly to a banquet room. Then a woman screamed.
Instantaneously, the brothers' eyes met and then the Winchesters moved as one, bound from the booth and ran for the source of the trouble. It was evident that Dean's leg was still bothering him when Sam reached the door first. He swung it open.
"Huh," Dean vocalized at the sight before them. It looked like a saloon brawl from a wild west movie. Everywhere they looked, people were fighting, knocking over tables, stepping on plates and food and kicking cups that were littering the floor.
"Oh my goodness," came a woman's exclamation behind them and Sam spun around, grabbed their waitress by the waist and halted her attempt to enter the fray.
"Whoa. No. Stay out," he ordered, found he didn't want any harm to come to the woman who had been kind enough to cajole he and Dean out of their standoff.
She put a hand to her mouth in horror. "Someone needs to stop them."
Shooting Dean a look over his shoulder, Sam read the agreement in Dean's eyes. Their job description covered all kinds of crazy crap. Facing the waitress, taking the time to read her nametag, he calmly assured, "Jamie, we'll handle this, Ok. I think you should call the police…"
Eyes darting a moment to the carnage in the other room before returning to the tall kid's kind eyes, Jamie nodded her head then she slipped away, was heading toward the phone behind the counter.
Confident that the waitress was safe, Sam turned around, exhaled as he gave Dean a look and then, as they stepped into the mayhem, shoulder to shoulder, he found himself quoting Shakespeare under his breath, "Once more into the breach…"
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TBC
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Thanks so much for continuing to spend time with this story and for my awesome supportive reviewers!
Have a great evening!
Cheryl W.
